Copenhagen

A few days before the end of those wonderful months, a car drove up to our station for gas. I was amazed to hear the mellifluous tones of Sinhala emanating from the back of the car. Naturally, we struck up a conversation. These three Sri Lankan gentlemen had been on a road trip in Europe, and were planning to drive back to London after a few days in Denmark. They were all older than my 21- years.

by Vijaya Chandrasoma

During the Summer of 1961, I applied to the National Union of Students for a Summer job as an exchange student in Europe. The Union placed me to work as a grease monkey at a gas station in Copenhagen, which included return train fare from Victoria Station in London to Copenhagen, a trip which lasted, if memory serves, 30 hours; I remember boarding the train at Victoria at midday on a Saturday, armed with plenty of drinking water and sandwiches, ending in Copenhagen around 8.0 pm on Sunday.

The Union had booked me at a hotel near the railway station on Sunday night, and I was picked up by my employer, the owner of the gas station to which I had been assigned, the next morning. I was given a room with attached bathroom next to the service station in the house where my employer and his wife lived. My remuneration included full board and lodging and the princely stipend of 10 kroner per week, the equivalent in Danish money of about Rs. 6.50 in Ceylon currency. I made at least double that amount in tips, and continued to receive the students’ allowance from home. With a beer at a bar/dance hall in the beautiful Tivoli Gardens costing just one kroner, I was one happy grease monkey. My only job was to fill up the gas and clean the windscreens of the cars that I served.

The Danes are a very friendly people, and at least one of the drivers or passengers in every three cars stopped to chat with this strange brown man. Scandinavians have no history of colonialism into Africa and Asia. They have no racial prejudice against colored people; on the contrary, they admire the swarthy hues of Asian and African people. I was often invited to the homes of many of our customers to dinner. They were all very interested in learning about the tropical island from which I hailed. It was the dream of a desert island for most Scandinavians, living as they do near the North Pole. Springtime and Summers are beautiful in Northern Europe and Scandinavia, but the Winters are freezing cold. I once spent Christmas at the Oslo, Norway home of a friend I met in London. The temperature was below zero, but it was a clean and crisp type of cold, unlike the smoggy, polluted cold of London. And the Christmas spirits available in abundance helped to keep ourselves warm.

The evenings in Copenhagen were spent at my boss’ home, watching TV and enjoying the bland but wonderful dinners prepared by his wife or taking a bus for a few drinks at one of the Taverns in Tivoli Gardens, the famous amusement park in Central Copenhagen. I was 20-years old, the girls were extraordinarily pretty and a Carlsberg was one kroner (60 Sri Lankan cents!) per bottle. Life was good. No, I lie. Life was infinitely better than merely good; it was the best four months I spent during my six years in Europe. Maybe in my whole life.

I recall one hilarious incident at one of these taverns in Tivoli Gardens. I was in the gents’ toilet one night when a couple of Sri Lankans walked in. I gathered that they were delegates to an international conference in Helsinki, in Finland, breaking journey on the taxpayers’ dime to spend a few days in beautiful Copenhagen on their return. They were, as was the fashion in those days for nationalist SLFP politicians, clad in resplendent national dress. When they saw the urinals, they looked at each other and one of them said, in Sinhala, “Machang, how are we going to pee?” The Sinhala version of this question is much more colorful. They were forced to lift their sarongs to conduct their business, much to the polite amusement of the couple of Danes who were also there. I was so embarrassed that I immediately changed my nationality and became an Indian for the night.

A few days before the end of those wonderful months, a car drove up to our station for gas. I was amazed to hear the mellifluous tones of Sinhala emanating from the back of the car. Naturally, we struck up a conversation. These three Sri Lankan gentlemen had been on a road trip in Europe, and were planning to drive back to London after a few days in Denmark. They were all older than my 21- years. We met for dinner and drinks at a restaurant in Tivoli Gardens the following night. One of them, Dr. K.N. (Bull) Seneviratne, was the older brother of a senior schoolmate of mine, Mr. Nihal (Galba) Seneviratne, who went on to grace the high office of Secretary General of the Sri Lankan Parliament. They suggested that I cash in my return ticket to London, and join them on their return journey. They were going to spend a few nights in Germany and Amsterdam, and would be in London in a few days. Which was fine by me, that 18-hour train ride certainly was no picnic.

During our return drive, I noticed that Dr. Seneviratne was purchasing miniature bottles of various types of liquors to add to his already substantial collection. As I was scheduled to leave for Colombo a few days after our return to London, the good doctor asked me if I could carry these miniature bottles with me, to be given to his brother, Nihal, who was a collector. I was happy to oblige him as he and his friends made my return trip from Copenhagen to London so much more enjoyable than a dreary train ride on my own.

I am not proud of the ending to this story. My roommate and a few friends had organized a little party in our flat in Fulham to celebrate/mourn my return home, and we ran out of booze. The pubs were closed. Someone noticed the little bottles that were in plain sight – I hadn’t begun packing yet – and we polished them all.

I spent six months after my return to Colombo, making increasingly ridiculous excuses about the fate of these bottles, that they were coming with my stuff by sea and other downright lies. Wrought by guilt, I finally confessed my crime to a close friend, the brother of Galba’s wife. Srima and Galba are wonderful people. I know they have forgiven me, but I also know they will never forget. Neither will I. The fact that those little bottles transformed an already great party to an unforgettable one will give them no consolation. We remain good friends today, 60 years later.

I had a little extra money I hadn’t been able to spend in London before the date of departure of the air ticket my parents had sent me. I arranged for a stopover in Cairo, with a couple of days at the Nile Hilton. I took in all the tourist stuff, rode a camel to visit the Great Pyramids and enjoyed the amenities of a Five Star hotel, a marked improvement from my modest accommodations in London and Oxford. An attached bathroom, for heaven’s sake. I also made friends with an American tourist, also staying at the Hilton. One evening, we were having a drink in my room, he went into the bathroom, where he was perplexed at the sight of the bidet. He couldn’t figure out its function, and asked me if it was used to wash one’s face. Like many Americans today, especially those of the Republican stripe, he had his facts ass backwards!